Remember When it Rained
by Akuma Syrelis
Summary: Harry and Draco find themselves deeply involved in one of VOldemort's schemes. There is a new DADA instructor and it seems as if all the forces of the Magical Realms are coming together to choose sides. Set after OotP.
1. Chapter 1

**Standard Disclaimer: **Harry Potter & co belong to J.K.Rawling. Original characters belong to me. Quotes within the text will be attributed to their authors to the best of the author's ability.

**Summary: ** A little pain, A little loss, A ton of history … and you've got this story. The Original Characters were created in order to facilitate the story line … which is difficult to describe right now without giving things away. Let me just say that it is going to be HP/DM, RW/HG … and I don't know what else in this story … except RL/SB and maybe later, RL/SS. So there are the ships.   
  
The Plot involves the past actions of some bad guys, the current actions of more bad guys, two lost souls coming together (not necessarily Harry and Draco :P) and a lot of magic.

* * *

……………

**Chapter 1**: Approaching Convergence

_Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.   
--Buddha _

Early morning light filtered through dusty windowpanes, across a horde of antique volumes lettered all in gold and silver filigree. Beyond the books lay more volumes, some neatly arranged on shelves, others scattered throughout in piles on tables, chairs and the warm, toffee-colored wood floors. Strange gadgets crafted in bronze and other metals with hundreds of knobs, dials, gyres, wheels and clockworks topped some of the piles and shelves, gleaming with promise beneath the dulling effect of the dust that lay like a warm blanket over everything.

The cat on the huge, leather bound edition of "Oculum Manifestus Noctum", did not seem concerned with dust, gadgets or books; rather, she simply let the sunlight wash over her, rolling her amber colored self into a more sunlight accessible shape with a purr like a broken boat motor.

It did not take long for the sunlight to fill the entire room of what was obviously a shop of some kind. It wasn't large - though it was filled to over-flowing with books. Upstairs could be heard the sounds of someone moving about and, then, the splash and rumble of waters surging through ancient pipes.

The cat stretched and twitched its whiskers, its tail flicking lazily against the window pane ... which, like everything else, was covered in dust. The resulting circle of clarity showed a cobbled street, quiet in the morning air, with a few birds pecking at the cobble stones and two or three cloaked figures moving briskly between the buildings. The water turned off upstairs and there was a loud clatter followed by a muffled curse. The cat twitched open a single golden eye and glanced upward, but when nothing further was forthcoming, she sighed and went back to drowsing. Outside, a tall figure in a long blue cloak daubed with silver stars stood staring up at the shop front from beneath the brim of a tall, pointed hat.

* * *

"Bloody Hell!"

She lay on her back on the tiled floor for a long moment, glad she'd already given the bathroom one of its more thorough cleanings the day before, but wondering whether or not she'd gotten a bit too industrious with the cleanser. The tiles had been slicker than average ... of course, she admitted to herself, that could be because she'd forgotten to draw the shower curtain completely and the puddle that was now beneath her hip had caught her unawares.

Sighing, she pulled herself awkwardly to her feet, tendering her hip like an old woman with arthritis. "You'd think I'd learn ..." she muttered, rubbing her face with her free hand and staring at herself in the mirror. Vivid golden eyes, the color of sunlit amber, glanced back at her from a sleep smudged face beneath a long, wet mop of burnished black hair. "You're an idiot, 'Edre," she muttered, picking up a brush and working it through her tangles. "Always forgetting to live like a normal human being, never remembering that you have to 'Pay Attention' ..." She sighed and laid the brush down, turning to limp toward the bathroom door."They always did say the books would go to my head," she muttered, dropping her bathrobe onto her bed and picking up the clothes she'd laid out for the day.

Just as she was pulling on the white silk blouse, the door bell clanged in the hall below. "Damn!" she exhaled, pulling on her slacks and grabbing her robe as she raced out of her bedroom and down the stairs, buttoning up her shirt as she went. She came out of the stairwell behind the counter and threw on her robe, it's rich brown length flaring as she strode toward the door. Andromeda, the cat, glanced sardonically at her as she passed.

"Hello ... Give me a moment, I have to unlock it," she called out, eyeing the tall, pointed silhouette in the frosted glass of the door with anxiety. Anyone who was here this early could only be a supplier, a collector or an official of something she didn't want to think about at this time of the morning. The silhouette didn't answer, but it didn't move away, either, so she sighed and drew her wand from her sleeve, casting the unlocking spell with a complicated swish before pulling the door open.

"I'm so sor ... " her voice trailed off for a long moment as she paused to gape at her visitor. "Sorry ... um ... "

"May I come in?"

"You're wearing blue."

"I'm quite aware of that. Are you going to leave me standing here, to my shame, or are you going to let me in?"

"Look, Severus, I'm sorry ... " She stepped back and let him into the shop before slamming the door shut again and relocking it, this time with a stronger spell than before, in addition to the bolts and chain.

"I didn't come to hear you apologize, Miss Endiredre."

"I realize that." She glared at him, "And you promised to call me Firien from now on. I don't recall ever being one of your students, and I certainly don't want you broadcasting my identity to all and sundry."

"Fine. Firien. Are you happy now? Can we get to the point of my visit or do I have to stand here waiting for you to get over yourself?" He had removed the hat, laying them on a table, and was now standing over her, glaring from beneath his mop of messy black hair.

"You are an ass," she stated before turning and sweeping toward the back of the shop. "We'll get to the point, but not here, in my shop. I haven't had my breakfast or my coffee yet, and I'm not going to forgive you if I miss it."

He followed her up the rickety stair case, through the narrow hall - he had to duck his head to miss the light, and into the kitchen, which was bigger than it should have been, given the size of the building. He sat down at the table and watched as she made the coffee and muffins.

"Coffee?" She asked, a few minutes later.

"Black."

"Figures," she poured and handed him a mug, then set the plate of muffins between them, along with a bowl of butter. "So, what brings you to my humble abode, Severus Snape? I hadn't thought to see you for at least another decade."

"Albus sent me," He took a long drink of his hot coffee and glared in the general direction of the kitchen sink. "We have no one to fill the DADA position this year, and things are coming to head with the Potter business."

She swallowed her muffin and took a long draught of coffee, "Why me?"

"You ought to know the answer to that already," He snarled, dark eyes furious. "Are you going to force me to explain every detail in full?"

"I ought to. I know how Albus Dumbledore works, Severus. I'm loathe to give up my freedom just to please an old man's whimsy. I need a solid reason why I ought to go to Hogwart's and put my life on the line. I know you want me there to guard Mr. Potter. I want to know why me, when there are others in the world who could do just as well." She set the mug down on the table and met his gaze with a level one of her own. "If you can't at least give me that courtesy, you can leave."

"He said you'd be difficult," the man glowered at her. She shrugged and folded her arms across her chest. He reached into his robes and withdrew an envelope. "Here is the contract, including his instructions. I'll wait while you read it."

Long, slim fingers carefully broke the seal on the letter and she pulled out a sheaf of folded papers. As she opened them, something small and square fell into her lap. Firien laid the papers down on the table and lifted the square into the light. A boy, about age 16, stared at her from the confines of the photograph, his dark hair blowing in the wind. His eyes were vivid green and there was a scar on his forehead shaped like a lightening bolt.

"He never fights fair, does he?" she asked, at last, laying the photo between them.

"Of course not," Severus Snape rose from the table, "We'll be waiting for you in August."

And then he had apparated away.

Firien stared at the place where he had been standing and swore, long and loudly.

* * *

During the summer between his fifth and sixth year at Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy had come to the realization that, along with his stunning good looks, wealth, talent and superior standing, he was also possessed of a lively intelligence. This realization led him to the conclusion that his father, unfortunately, was not in possession of such an intelligence ... or, at least, he had developed said intelligence in entirely the wrong direction by following the likes of the resurrected Dark Lord.

This conclusion was arrived at during a particularly pathetic interlude involving his mother, Pansy Parkinson, a tea trolley and an interminable discussion of what one wore to a Death Eater Convention in Surrey during the summer.

As far as Draco was concerned, both women could dress as house elfs and wear doilies, just so long as they would allow him to escape ... soon. He had already discussed the summer situation with his tailor and they had arrived at the conclusion that, in the interest of comfort and style, Draco would not be attending said Death Eater Convention, but would be escaping to London in order to go clubbing with a more civilized crowd.

Draco felt he had ample reason to skip the Convention; for one, he no longer felt that following the orders of the Dark Lord was a viable path to the future. Not to mention, his father's recent incarceration was always very present upon his mind, and, while he admitted to a general concern over his father's welfare, Draco had come to the conclusion that his hero had fallen. The undefeatable father figure who had guided him from childhood to adolescence had proven himself fallible.

Draco found himself profoundly unsurprised.

It had to do, of course, with his meeting with Voldemort not long before the attack upon the ministry that had ended with his father's capture. He'd gone home for the holidays, expecting lavish ornamentation and decadent celebration only to discover that his father had given the manor over to the biggest git of the century. Ancient, powerful, disgusting and oozing things, Voldemort had reminded Draco of nothing so much as a mummy who had taken it into its head to walk around and take over the world. Of course, he'd been forced to defend said mummy on his return to Hogwarts after his Holidays, but that was neither no there now that his father was gone.

He came to the conclusion while watching Pansy daintily sip her tea - as though a girl who looked like a pug could do anything daintily - that Voldemort was disgusting and Lucius Malfoy was insane for wanting to follow the creature. If his father had been wrong about this fundamental ideology of Draco's childhood, then what did that mean about the rest of the things he had been taught? He finished his tea with a pounding headache and managed to excuse himself without too much embarrassment. Pansy seemed disappointed, but he felt, under the circumstances, that her feelings were hardly an issue.

His confusion lasted until the night preceding the Death Eater Convention ... when he overheard his mother discussing plans with Peter Pettigrew to give Draco the Dark Mark so he could follow in his father's footsteps.

He didn't want to follow in his father's footsteps, he realized as he stood in the hall outside his mother's sitting room. His Slytherin sensibilities were revolting at the very idea. What reward could be had for following someone whose self-interest was the most likeable thing about him? Anyone with half a brain could see that following Voldemort was pointless. The man was a walking mud blood corpse who was more interested in murdering a boy named Harry Potter than he was in actually -being- a Dark Lord.

Draco was unimpressed.

He was unimpressed and he was sick with the idea that such a creature might want to use him, as well ... for what he did not want to know. So he went to his room, called a house elf and instructed it to pack his things straight away for the ... He found himself smiling. "Pack my things for the Convention, Oily, and bring me another bag. I have a few oddments I wish to take along for myself."

Sneaking out with a pocket of magically reduced luggage (His entire wardrobe, the contents of his private safe, half his personal library along with his private papers, his broom chest and a trunk full of his most prized possessions)was easier than he had imagined it would be. He told his mother he was going to stop by the London townhouse for the evening and that he would meet her at the Portkey site in the morning.

"Very well, darling," Narcissa had murmured, smiling at him, her pale eyes moving over his person with approval. "You make your father very proud, you know."

Somehow, it was harder to agree with her than it was to walk away, but he looked over his shoulder as he went, his eyes bright in the firelight. "Good night, mother."

That was how, at 10 p.m. that evening, he found himself standing at the front gate of Hogwarts, a hefty purse on one hip, a welter of luggage in his pocket and a wary expression to the tilt of his pale head. He hoped as he rapped his knuckles against the aging doors, that he would not overly regret his decision.

* * *

She was having a bad day, she decided around lunch time. First, Severus Snape had come to visit, bringing his paperwork, temperamental irritability and heart wrenching photographs. Then, she'd discovered that a poltergeist had moved into the basement and was irritating the water nymph who helped keep her city water country fresh. It had taken four hours, a closed shop, 50 galleons and a gnomish Exorcist to rid the basement of the Poltergeist, which she was unfairly inclined to blame on Snape. After that, having reopened the shop, she found herself at the mercy of three tearful Gilderoy Lockhart fans who were attempting to find first edition copies of all his books.

"Look, I'm sorry, but I don't carry Gilderoy Lockhart," she tried to explain. "My store specializes in antiquities, and Mr. Lockhart's work is all quite recent." - Not to mention fraudulent - she added silently. "Please, you'll want to check Flourish and Blotts. Perhaps they'll know who would carry that edition if they do not have it."

"But everyone in the Alley assured us that you carried the largest stock of out-of-print books!" the elderly witch who had initiated the exchange sniffled into an overly embroidered handkerchief that featured a fluttery display of miniature cherubs who all looked disturbingly like Gilderoy Lockhart. "Surely you can find some way to help us!"

Firien frowned at her inventory list and wondered which book dealer in Diagon Alley had it in for her. Just because she was the new kid on the block didn't mean they ALL had to send their most hated customers to her door step. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her chin and eyed the three women with a flinty glare, ala Severus Snape who, she decided at that moment, was good for something after all.

"Perhaps one of the local second hand book shops might have it, but I do not. None of my dealers would touch a book that was less than a hundred years old, and even those are considered practically new! Albus Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel's works on the Philosopher's Stone are the only books that I sell that have a later print date, and that is because Flamel was over five hundred years old when he died and was himself considered an antiquity." She inhaled deeply and tried not to clench the edge of the counter too tightly. "I'm sure that you will find the editions you require if you look at one of those other shops. Mine, as you can see, will not stock those volumes for another eighty years, at least."

"Well! I never ... " the witch with the handkerchief was slinging poor Gilderoy Lockhart's visage all over the shop as she waved her hands through the air. "Believe me, Miss ... Miss ... " she glared at Firien, but the shopkeeper had her arms folded across her chest and was glaring venomously at her by this point, " ... Miss-Whatever-Your-Name-Is, I am going to tell all my friends that you are a tremendously rude young person and that your shop is no better than it should be. Insufferable brat!"

"Corinda, we should really go now," one of the other ladies whispered hesitantly to her agitated friend. "I'm sure there's no need for us to stay here after all of that. She doesn't stock the books, after all ... "

"Miranda! We're leaving!" the handkerchief waver announced dramatically and then proceeded to waft out of the store, her attendants - for they were more like sycophants than friends - following her out the door.

Firien slumped down on her stool behind the main counter and covered her face with her hands. It was too much to be born. She had owned the shop for over fifteen years now, and it never changed. The other nearby shops were either in Knockturn Alley, and were out and out mean about the competition, or they were in Diagon, where, because she refused to advertise or socialize, she was considered more than a little strange. In fact, one of the smallish bookstores down the street on Diagon had threatened, in a very sweet manner, to accidentally 'nudge' her shop all the way into Knockturn the next time they remodeled.

Thankfully, no one had bothered to investigate why she had chosen to be so reclusive. It was bad enough that she had to work among the public at all, and that was the main reason why she wanted nothing more to do with Albus "Have a lemon drop" Dumbledore. Every time the old bat had tried to 'help' her, she ended up doing things she didn't want to do and dealing with people she hated. Then, when she brought the situation to his attention, he did a silly song and dance routine and played her heart strings until she broke down and capitulated.

She fairly hated the man. Despite the cute spectacles and the floofy beard.

It had been his idea to hide her square in the center of the wizarding world, a world that didn't want her when it thought it knew what she was and a world that would definitely turn against her if it found out the truth. At the time she had been new to the world, confused and alone, and the idea of having a place to call her own had been like a dream come true. And then she'd moved in and opened the shop. The truth had been rather harder to bear.

Perhaps she ought to simply close the store today and reopen tomorrow, she thought desperately. Tomorrow is always fresh, as they say ... and then the bell above the door dinged again, announcing another customer. She groaned and slumped down even further.

* * *

Hermione was in heaven. It took one look at her shimmering eyes and beaming smile to know that. Harry and Ron followed after her at a safe distance. Ron claimed that he didn't want to follow too close, or people would think he was as mad about books as she was.

"She's balmy," Ron said for the fortieth time as they watched her walk up the steps of the shop they were approaching. "I mean, look at her! She's in bloody heaven over what basically amounts to a dust heap."

"Mmm," Harry answered, his hands in his pockets, fist clenched around his wand. He wasn't paying too much attention to either Hermione or Ron at the moment. It had been a hard summer and he hadn't been out of doors for far too long. The open streets and mobs of people were making him jumpy and he had to stop himself from constantly looking over his shoulder.

At the Dursleys, earlier in the summer, he'd had to watch for Death Eaters while in public and his Uncle Vernon's fist while in private. The anger he'd been feeling when he had left Hogwarts had long faded into a kind of numb acceptance. He had spent the first two weeks fighting back, forcing his uncle to back down and leave him alone; his anger at Snape, himself and Dumbledore taking shape as it screamed itself out in the house on Privet Drive.

But it hadn't lasted. One day Vernon had got in a good punch, and Harry had gone clear across the hall, slamming into the wall and sliding down. It had hurt too much to move, and he slumped there while Vernon's harsh voice washed over him in a wave. "I deserve this," he had thought, not really hearing the words his Uncle was spitting at him with such fervor. "I did this. Sirius, the Ministry, everything ... I ... I deserve this."

After that it didn't matter what the Dursleys did or said. He sometimes provoked Vernon on purpose, pushing him till the man's rage overcame him and Harry ended up bruised and bleeding. It seemed appropriate, somehow, to be punished. At least he was paying for who he was, in some small way, to make up for the things he had done – the mistakes he had made. When Remus and Tonks found him, a month into the summer break, he was battered, bruised and silent. They'd wanted to remove him them, but Vernon but up a fight and Petunia kept shrilling on and on about how they were taking care of the freakish brat and the rest of his tribe could just bugger off.

Remus lost his temper.

That was all Harry really remembered. Tonks had been bundling his things into his trunk and Remus had been threatening the Dursleys in an uncommonly violent fashion. They'd finally left, taking Harry and leaving behind a sulking family of muggles. Now, Harry was here, walking along Diagon Alley as though there were no Death Eaters after him and he was just a normal boy out with his friends. He would have laughed at the irony of it if he'd had any laughter left in him; instead, he nodded at Ron and kept his eye on Hermione and the street … hoping against hope that his friends would survive a summer with him in it with them.

The door of the shop chimed with the sound of bells when Hermione opened it. Harry found himself wondering at the surprisingly cheery notes and wondering if there was a world left in which such things mattered.

(To Be Continued)


	2. Chatper 2

**Standard Disclaimer: **Harry Potter & co belong to J.K.Rawling. Original characters belong to me. Quotes within the text will be attributed to their authors to the best of the author's ability.

**Summary: ** A little pain, A little loss, A ton of history … and you've got this story. The Original Characters were created in order to facilitate the story line … which is difficult to describe right now without giving things away. Let me just say that it is going to be HP/DM, RW/HG … and I don't know what else in this story … except RL/SB and maybe later, RL/SS. So there are the ships.   
  
The Plot involves the past actions of some bad guys, the current actions of more bad guys, two lost souls coming together (not necessarily Harry and Draco :P) and a lot of magic.

**Chapter Two: Collisions**

> _You only got one finger left _
> 
> _And it's pointing at the door_
> 
> _And you're taking for granted_
> 
> _What the Lord's laid on the floor_
> 
> _So I'm picking up the pieces_
> 
> _And I'm putting them up for sale_
> 
> _Throw your meal ticket out the window_
> 
> _Put your skeletons in jail_
> 
> Beck

"Lemon Drop?"  
  
He didn't like lemon drops, though some would say lemons suited his personality. He didn't like Albus Dumbledore, either. The man spent his time plotting the downfall of Dark Lords, bridling men in power with his logic, and maneuvering people into the carefully wrought paths he had planned for them. He did it all in a way that would have made Salazar Slytherin proud - all while he beamed and smiled, offering children candy and ignoring unpleasantness as he simultaneously shredded his opponents with a brand of kindness that was as insidious as it was irresistible. Lucius Malfoy had considered Albus Dumbledore to be a dangerous old fool, but, as Draco had already come to the conclusion that his father was not properly employing his intelligence, he did not personally hold the same opinion of Hogwart's Headmaster. Of course, he had to admit to himself that, up until recently, he would have been more than proud to agree with his father's estimation.  
  
The Headmaster of Hogwarts was a wily old man and he had a gift for seeing through one's actions directly to the motivations behind them. It didn't help that he practically channeled Father Christmas while he did so. Draco had never trusted him and he half believed that, despite Dumbledore's current status as the Grand Scion of Griffindor House, in another life the old man had been a Slytherin.  
  
That is why he gave the offered lemon drop a look of deep and sincere suspicion before taking the offending object and popping it into his mouth.   
  
"Thank you, Sir," he said politely, waiting to see if there would be any after-effects from the candy. Fortunately - or not, depending on one's point of view, and Draco had been half hoping to find Dumbledore willing to use underhanded methods such as putting Veritaserum in the lemon drops - the candy had no effect upon him whatsoever, except to make him wince a little at the sour taste.  
  
"Very welcome," the blue eyes were twinkling behind the half-moon spectacles, though Dumbledore's expression was somber. "I was wondering, Mr. Malfoy, why you would abandon your summer holidays to visit school. It is not what one would call the ... ah ... natural behavior of youth. As much as I might admire your apparent dedication, it seems that you have something you very much need to tell me, and that, alas, has nothing to do with a fervor for your school work."  
  
"Indeed not," he gave an elegant sniff and ran his hand through his hair. It was much easier to do now that he no longer coated his head in gel every morning and had let the length grow to his shoulders. His mother liked to say that he was looking more and more like his father. Draco could see the resemblance as well, but he thought he had a quality his father did not. Something of his mother's family dwelt in his eyes ... a fire beneath the ice. Perhaps it was just the Veela blood - still, he could feel the pulse of it in his veins. However, the ice was a part of him as much as the flame, and it was the ice that served him best during negotiations.   
  
"Professor, you're aware that my father and mother are Death Eaters," he began, cutting straight to the point. "My parents expect that I, too, will become a Death Eater, and I was prepared to accept that fate ... I welcomed it, actually." He fell silent for a moment, trying to find a way to continue. It was harder than he had thought it would be, denouncing everything he had ever known to be true. He was careful to school his expression into one of utter calm - it would do no good to give the Headmaster more information than he already had.  
  
"What changed your mind, Draco?" Professor Dumbledore asked, and he somehow managed to sound just teacherly enough to make Draco resent the question completely.  
  
"What wouldn't?" He asked back, his voice harsh. "You've met Voldemort, you know what he is. Certainly he has power. A great deal of it ... but he's nothing more than a hideous, rotting shell who hates muggles because he doesn't know what else to do with that power. He's bloody starkers! My father has served the Dark Lord's purpose throughout his life, and he's one of the only sane ones in the bunch. The only thing that has saved him up until now is the Malfoy name, and even that has failed him. Voldemort has left my father to rot in Azkaban and constantly demands funds and favors from my mother in support of his 'cause'." He drew in a breath, realizing as he did so that he was trembling – he kept seeing his mother's face as they had said goodbye.  
  
"I will not allow them to use me the way they use my father," he said softly, pressing a hand to his eyes. "I won't be a servant to anyone ... they were going to force me to swear allegiance to the Dark Lord tonight. It never occurred to them that Lucius Malfoy's son might object to taking the Dark Mark, and, if I had stayed, I would have taken it … whether I wished to or not." Inhaling deeply, feeling his lungs inflate, he dropped his hand and met Dumbledore's gaze with a fierce glare of his own. "I'd rather die with Potter than die that monster's slave."  
  
"Brave words, Mr. Malfoy."  
  
Draco tilted his head, silver gray eyes glinting, "You mistake me for a Griffindor, Professor. I'm hardly doing this for the good of the wizarding world."  
  
"So you seek some opportunity in all this?" Dumbledore replied, and the glint behind his half-moon spectacles made Draco think of the possibility of Dumbledore's previous lives again. Dumbledore stroked a hand through the long, fleecy beard that fell down his chest. "If you join us, you may actually die with Harry Potter, whether you will it or no." The old man laughed, "Who knows? Perhaps you may be forced to become fast friends for the cause!"  
  
"So long as you don't require that we host tea parties together for the Griffindor girls, I think I can manage Potter," Draco shrugged, his lip curling slightly. He had no intention of becoming one of Potter's many sycophants.  
  
"No, I don't think we'll be requiring you to do that," Dumbledore rose and stepped up to his fireplace, gesturing to Draco. "Come along, my boy. We are going to have to make living arrangements for you for the summer. You can't stay here."  
  
Draco followed the headmaster to the fireplace and gazed into the crackling flames with misgiving. He hadn't thought much beyond this meeting with the Headmaster, and now they were heading into the unknown.   
  
He wasn't certain he liked the unknown any more than he liked lemon drops.

* * *

Firien sank low on her stool and peered out at the newcomers through the carved Celtic knot work that adorned the edge of the store counter. She admitted that she was behaving childishly, but it was difficult to care. The possibility that a stray hex had flared out of Knockturn Alley and struck her shop was never remote, and compounded with the day, it was becoming more and more likely. Some of the neighbors really didn't like her anymore than they had to and would welcome the chance to torment her in anyway they could. She wasn't about to present herself as an open target to just anyone who came into the store.   
  
The door opened amid a chorus of chimes from the shop bell and three people stood silhouetted in the daylight for a moment. Then one of them, a girl, made a delighted noise and stepped through onto the polished wooden floor toward one of the many towering, dusty bookshelves. The next, a boy with absurdly loud red hair slouched behind her, barely paying attention the stock and appearing only mildly interested in the gadgets that decorated the tops of all the shelves.  
  
She found herself standing straight as the last figure melted out of the bright square of the door and came to being on the floor of her shop. More than that, she was moving forward, noting the dark hair, the rounded glasses and the pain-filled eyes as though compelled. It took a sudden, purposeful wrench to pull herself back into reality, and she was, by that time, standing directly in front of him, listening to herself speak.  
  
"I know you."   
  
It was more than the photograph on the table upstairs. The green eyes that were staring at her with shock and suspicion had a power in them that would not let her free. Wild and familiar, the power sang through her veins and carried her with it down a path she had not thought to ever trod again. Something deep in her heart was screaming that an empty place she hadn't known existed was suddenly, irrevocably full … a magic so deep that it made her head spin and she staggered.  
  
The wand digging into her ribs brought her abruptly back to reality.   
  
"I don't know who you are, but I do recognize what you're doing," he said. "And I don't care for your methods. Death Eater."  
  
"Oh," she said, not quite knowing what else to do in the situation, "Brilliant. Bloody Brilliant. I'm going to kill Snape."  
  
After all the lessons he'd had in Occlumency, whether he'd been paying attention or not, the feeling that someone was looking through his thoughts was more than a little familiar. The willowy woman with her long, jet black hair and weirdly gold eyes had an unfocused expression on her face as she stared into his eyes. He felt an energy sizzle between them and a surge of pent-up rage freed his wand arm and he'd forced her to back off.  
  
And then she said something completely witless about Snape.   
  
"You know Professor Snape?" He'd asked, wondering if Ron and Hermione were watching. To one side of him a large tortoise shell cat was giving him an alarmingly friendly look while she stretched and flexed her claws. On the other, several teetering piles of books loomed dangerously. It gave him precious little space to dual, he thought, panicking.  
  
"Of course I know Severus Snape," the woman snapped, stepping away from him and tucking her hands into the sleeves of her robe, watching him warily – as though he might suddenly bite or scratch. "He was here this morning! I was already blaming him for the day I've had ... I think I can blame him for your presence as well."  
  
"What are you talking about? He had nothing to do with us coming in here!"   
  
"Oh. Really. So he just happens to come to my shop, offer me a job he knows I don't want, shows me a picture of your darling face to sway my shriveling, antique heart, and you expect me to believe that he had nothing to do with having you enter my shop not even twelve hours later?" She gave him a truly withering glare. "You can tell him from me that I do not accept his most generous of offers and that I am not about to be swayed by brooding teenaged boys, no matter how deserving of sympathy."  
  
Hermione and Ron were, by this time, distracted from the books and gadgets and were creeping out to stand behind him, their wands at the ready. Harry nodded to them with a grim half-smile and murmured, "She's gone completely round the bend."  
  
"Comes from having a shop this close to Knockturn," Hermione murmured back, tossing a lock of hair over her shoulder. "And no need to call her heart antique ... she can't be much older than Percy."  
  
"Was she talking about Snape?" Ron wanted to know.   
  
At this point the shopkeeper gave them all a disgusted look and threw up her hands, turning and walking back toward the counter. "Go away. I have enough to occupy my day without having to spend time arguing with children."  
  
"Don't move," Harry said, leveling his wand. "You were trying to read my mind. I reckon you should tell me why."  
  
She paused, setting one foot beside the other, and, for a moment, didn't move at all. She seemed like a statue, she was so still. The long black hair was braided here and there, Harry saw, and tied with intricate knots. The brown robes lay very still about her figure. When finally she moved, it was to turn her head, her golden eye gleaming at him from just behind a lock of hair.   
  
"I am no mind reader, Harry Potter. I don't know what happened when you entered my store. It is bad manners to draw your wand upon your host, particularly when that host has not, in fact, offended. I am going back to the counter. If you don't mind, I'd prefer that you left now."  
  
"C'mon Harry," he felt Hermione pulling on his sleeve, but he didn't move. Ron was saying something, but he didn't listen. He could feel it again, the power between the stranger and himself, and, he realized, it had never actually stopped since he'd entered the bookshop. It felt as though her magic were … touching … him.  
  
"What are you doing to me?"   
  
His voice seemed to stretch and slow, time moving inexorably, painfully as she turned full around, her left eyebrow quirking upward as she moved.   
  
She opened her mouth to answer his question and a puff of smoke erupted from the fireplace next to her, covering her with soot all down her right hand side. The haze of ash from the fireplace seemed to roll through the shop like a fog. Someone dressed all in blue with flaming sunbursts and twinkling stars spattered over his robe stepped out of the fireplace, dusting himself off as he moved forward, smiling.  
  
"Bloody Hell," Ron murmured.   
  
"Dumbledore?" Hermione asked.

* * *

Firien folded her hands into her sleeves, somehow managing to look dignified despite the dust covering the entire right side of her face. She watched with impervious calm as Dumbledore took several moments to dust off and sort himself out. When he was finished, he twinkled at her happily.   
  
"It seems you've already met Harry, Hermione and Ron," he chuckled, finally pausing long enough to take a good look at her. "My dear, what on earth happened? You look rather odd, if I may say so."  
  
Harry, having been watching the woman's face, hurriedly tucked his wand away, thinking pessimistically that Dumbledore had to have noticed it already, but determined not to stand there like an idiot any longer. He heard Hermione muttering behind him, and grinned a little at the, "I think we overdid it somewhat."   
  
I doubt you're here to discuss the condition of my fireplace, Albus. I would find it utterly -fascinating-, however, if you were to tell me what in the Seven Hells are you doing in my shop? And who are all these ... these ... Children!?!"   
  
Dumbledore gave a rumbling laugh and then waved his hand in the air, "I think that we should discuss this upstairs, don't you? Over a nice, hot cup of tea?"  
  
The shop seemed to grow very quiet as the woman, ash in her hair, rage on her face, attempted to breathe. In and out, in and out, her chest rose and fell until, finally, something bright and orange brushed against her leg and mewed up at her, tail swishing. She looked down and met the bright eyes of the cat.  
  
"Fine. We'll go upstairs. But that is all. You can do the talking." She bit out. "I want as little to do with this as possible."   
  
Harry, as they followed the woman upstairs, looked behind and saw the cat settling once more upon the large spell book in the center of the shop. The cat glanced back and met his eyes, slowly blinking at him before curling into itself and tucking its nose beneath its tail.

* * *

The werewolf was staring at him. He didn't like it. At all.   
  
But that didn't change anything, because the werewolf was still staring at him.  
  
"I don't bite, you know," Remus Lupin said conversationally, after about ten minutes worth of staring.  
  
"That's comforting," Draco answered, barely managing to maintain a calm voice. He'd never been fond of undomesticated magical creatures. He could tolerate Familiars like cats and toads, he rather liked owls, and the occaisional magical dog was all right ... but he really didn't like wild magic like werewolves, griffons and the like. He had a certain kinship with dragons, but that was about as far as his creature tolerance extended. He wished Lupin would stare at someone else. But the other three people in the room were all staring at him as well and not providing much in the way of werewolf distraction.   
  
"I don't like it," Mad Eye Moody muttered, after another ten minutes had passed.  
  
"What's not to like?" Lupin inquired, politely sipping his tea.   
  
"The lad's not here out of the goodness of his heart," Moody grumbled, his eyeball swirling sickeningly in its socket. Draco watched with a certain fascinated horror, suppressing a shudder. "If it suits his purpose, he'll betray the lot of us."  
  
Draco glared at that. "I gave Dumbledore my word," he snapped. "I'm not about to break it."  
  
"Your father would," Molly Weasley said from the other end of the table. "In a heartbeat."  
  
Remus Lupin nodded. "Lucius Malfoy would, indeed," he agreed. "But the boy is not his father."  
  
Draco looked at Lupin, shocked. He hadn't expected to be defended. The werewolf smiled slightly, "If Dumbledore vouches for you, Mr. Malfoy, then I have no problem with you. In any case, you are in no position to betray us. Your father has a long memory, and Voldemort's is longer. You wouldn't make it back to the Death Eaters alive."  
  
Every since Dumbledore had brought him to this grimy little kitchen, there had been no relief from the painfully blunt observations and accusations. The only one who didn't, or wouldn't, say anything was Professor Snape. He just glared and sipped his tea, looking murderously down at the liquid each time he did so, as though it offended him deeply, before looking back at Draco with the same expression on his face. At Lupin's words, Snape took another sip of tea and Draco turned his gaze away from the table and its occupants, seeking some kind of refuge in the familiar objects around him: a teacup, a Belligerant Bottle Clock that had been charmed not to emit foul smelling bubbles on the hour, an iron dustbin that looked like a really fat troll ...   
  
Draco blinked. Where on earth was he? This kitchen seemed like something out of the Parkinson's house, rather than the kitchen of someone like Molly Weasley, whose dustbin would never dare look like a troll. He pushed back his chair and turned around, ignoring Mad Eye Moody's exclamations and Snape's sharp glance.   
  
"You've got to be joking," he murmured at last. "Dumbledore's fantastic spy network is housed in ... in ...," he couldn't even say it. It was too ludicrous! Yet, he had been here once before, long ago, when he was about six and his father had taken him to meet his relatives on his mother's side. They'd sent him to the kitchens with his nurse and he'd been happy enough to play with that very same clock.  
  
"This is the Black House ... I've been here before. Back when old Mrs. Black was alive." He gave the other people in the kitchen a long look before meeting Lupin's gaze once more. "I seriously doubt she'd want all of you mucking about in her house."  
  
"It's no longer a part of the Black families' posessions, lad," Moody replied shortly. "After Mrs. Black passed on, it was entailed to Sirius Black, the last surviving heir to the Black Estate. One Mr. Harry Potter purchased it at auction through an agent on the event of Black's death in a very private transaction at Gringott's bank." The old man's expression wasn't -quite- mean enough to be spiteful, but Draco wasn't convinced that the man's facial muscles were entirely under his control.  
  
"So this is Potter's house." He hoped he was sneering with an appropriate amount of venom. Molly Weasley gave an exasperated sigh and sipped at her tea.   
  
"Yes, it is Harry's now." Lupin answered. "And it is also the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. Of which you are now a member."  
  
"I see. So, as a member, I assume that I am not a prisoner. I was beginning to have my doubts."  
  
"No, you're not a prisoner, Malfoy," Moody commented, "but it really depends on how you behave as to whether or not that status will change."  
  
Draco gave the man a cold look, "I'm hardly deficient in manners: 'protecting my own interests' and pursuing information concerning those interests is hardly to be faulted, given the circumstances."   
  
Had his father heard him, he would have been proud, Draco thought as he spoke; however, his father was in Azkaban and probably had other things on his mind.   
  
Suddenly he didn't feel like talking to these people who stared at him and saw what they wanted to see. They didn't trust him anymore than he trusted them and that paled in comparison to what he'd done to his family name. He had not yet allowed himself to really consider the situation, and now, among such hostility, he was beginning to feel the weight of what he'd done.   
  
"Excuse me," he stood fluidly and brushed his hair out of his eyes, the picture of nonchalance and teenaged savior faire belied only faintly in his eyes. "Is there a restroom?"   
  
They told him and he turned, aware of Moody's suspicious glare and Lupin's sad expression. As he passed, however, he found his head of house staring at him with piercing eyes and realized that he could never hide himself from Snape. His hand trembled and he clenched it tightly into a fist. He would not allow them to see him as weak. But as he found himself alone, at last, without the fear that someone would drag him back to his family, he sank down to the floor and put his hands over his face, the façade of everything he pretended to be falling to the ground in tatters.   
  
"I won't back out of this," he exhaled into his fingers. At the table, with Moody, Lupin, Mrs. Weasley and Professor Snape all staring at him, he had wanted to leave. He had wanted to run. A Malfoy's sense of self-preservation was the highest developed of all their senses – and he had run … to the bathroom – but even as he did so, he had known that he couldn't go further, he couldn't step out the door into the cold world where Voldemort and the Death Eaters would surely be waiting.   
  
Draco sighed, leaning his head back against the tiled wall. It would be curious to see Harry Potter's face when he came home that night and found his school rival already there. A grin played about the corner of his lips and he stifled the urge to chuckle. That alone was worth something, to see Potter's face go pale and then red with anger while the Weasel and Granger spluttered behind him. He shook his head and pushed himself to his feet, leaning forward over the sink to peer at his reflection before going back to the kitchen.  
  
His reflection in the mirror showed him a face much paler than usual, which made his eyes stand out like twin moons of pale silver. He looked haunted. "That's no good." He grumbled, pulling out his wand and casting the grooming charm he'd learned from his father. He'd learned everything he knew from his father: how to think, how to behave, how to be a Malfoy. It hurt, remembering, but it would be a cold day in hell before Draco Malfoy looked anything less than perfect, so he used his father's charm and set his face into a carefully mixed expression of hauteur and chill civility.  
  
The only comfort was, at least here, the tea parties weren't boring.


End file.
